


Hello, My Baby; Hello, My Honey

by idreamtofreality



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Doritos!, M/M, Steve is sad and gay, bittersweet ending? kinda?, i mean you can't prove most of this wrong so, please give him a break, quotes from canon, sam and natasha call steve's shit the fuck out, sam wilson is my perfect and pure son, steve is just trying to recover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 16:56:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8409430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idreamtofreality/pseuds/idreamtofreality
Summary: Steve just watched Bucky fall from the train. Afterward, he tries to piece together what exactly was between him and his best friend. Was there something more there? Everybody else seems to think so. Even in the future, his fellow heroes give him the daily eyeball emoji whenever the topic comes up.Maybe they're right. Maybe the love they had for each other was more than just friendship.(Title from that oldass song)





	

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This is a new style I'm trying out, so let me know what y'all think of it
> 
> 2) I wrote this so the internet knows that I can, in fact, characterize these assholes correctly my only other Stucky right now is full of ooc-ness but in my defense it's a fluff piece
> 
> 3) Also the fact that I live off of comments still remains to be a fact i welcome any and all feedback

After he was gone, Steve had no trouble moving on. There were commandos on either side of him and they needed orders and he was _fine_.

He only slipped once. Peggy asked in his ear where Sergeant Barnes was and just for a moment he stumbled. He got a few concerned looks.

He pretended he didn’t hear the question. Peggy didn’t ask again.

Snow  blew into his face. The wind was harsh against his skin. Beside him, the commandos hiked up their pants and tied their scarves tighter and said things about how cold it was--how fucking _cold_ it was. He heard a whisper, then--faint, brushing across his ears, vulgar but somehow comforting.

He tilted his head, aching for it, but it was gone, swept away with the torrent of snow.

They pushed on.

This mission, it was far more complex than anything they’d done before. Everything they’d done up until now had been stationary--they could sneak in, do their job. If they fell, they’d hit the ground and spring back up.

Steve’s knees buckled for a moment. He pushed on.

This one was different. It was moving, for one. There was a long, straight line of rooms they had to barrel into and clear. And Steve’s mobility was next to insignificant--not a lot of flips and tricks you can do to avoid somebody in a room less than ten feet wide.

When he was first starting out--when he was storming into that base for B--for the 107th--he found inside himself a grace he’d never had before. He could leap over tanks effortlessly. He could run without gasping for breath.

_He imagined, just for a moment, what the headline would say: Sergeant Barnes, Howling Commando, Dead in Tragic Accident._

_Accident. Accident. He was angry at the headline for lying to the public._

_I’m not perfect._

_I’m_ not _perfect._

“Steve.”

It was Peggy. Her voice was so wonderfully soft and gentle, but Steve didn’t want soft or gentle. He wanted sharp lines and dark eyes. “Dr. Erskine said that the serum wouldn’t just affect my muscles,” he said, knocking back the drink in his hand; “It would affect my cells. Create a protective system of regeneration and healing. Which means, um…” He dropped the glass onto the table with an ugly clatter. “I can’t get drunk. Did you know that?”

She watched him for a long time. “Your metabolism burns four times faster than the average person. He thought it could be one of the side effects.” A pause. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Did you read the reports?”

She pressed her lips together. “Yes.”

“Then you know that’s not true.”

“You did everything you could,” she said. “Did you believe in your friend? Did you respect him?”

Steve just looked at her.

“Then stop blaming yourself. Allow Barnes the dignity of his choice. He damn well must have thought you were worth it.”

He ran his fingers over the glass, scraping his nails across the surface. “I’m goin’ after Schmidt. I’m not gonna stop ‘til all of Hydra is dead or captured.”

“You won’t be alone.” There was another long moment of silence. “I talked to the comandos.”

Steve didn’t move. “Yeah?”

“They’re concerned about you.”

“Tell them not to be.”

“Steve.” Her voice turned imploring. “They said you were completely silent after that unless you were giving orders. They describe you as”--she hesitated--“robotic.”

Steve said nothing.

“Do you remember anything after he fell?”

“Yes.”

She reached across the table and touched his hand. He jerked away.

“Fine. I only remember it in bits and pieces, okay? I hardly remember anythin’.” He reached for the bottle and poured himself another shot. “Still got it done,” he added sourly, “And that’s all that matters.”

“That’s _not_ all that matters. You’re this country’s hero.”

He lifted his gaze. Peggy’s lipstick was smudged and her mascara was blurred. Had she been crying? He hadn’t noticed. “Hero,” he repeated, flat.

“You inspire the whole country. If you--”

He pushed back his chair suddenly, and the scraping of wood against the stone floor drowned out her voice. “I’m going back to my bunk,” he said, wiping at his face. His fingers came away wet. “Do you need me for anything else?”

Peggy’s eyes were shining. “No, Captain. Take your leave. As long as you need.”

Steve laughed. He picked up the bottle and took a lazy swig. “We both know that’s not true.”

_Imagine for a moment: sharp jawline. Scruff. Tired eyes. Bright smile. Blue coat, wings on one sleeve. Warm hands. Gentle, coarse fingers. Quiet words. The cold._

_Panic._

_Falling._

_Screaming._

_Reaching, desperate._

He pushed open the flap on his tent and stared at the two empty bunks for a long time.

It seemed so empty. So very _empty_. The silence was nearly deafening.

He walked to his own bed first but made no move to sink into it and relieve his aching muscles. If he laid down, he would be forced to face the empty bed on the other side of the tent. And if he turned around, he would drown in the memories.

_Imagine for just one breath: warmth. He holds him tight around the waist and breathes in the smell of his neck. They face the wall._

_It’s a bad wall, but he doesn’t pay attention to that. He only focuses on the feeling that comes when their bare skin presses together._

_“Are you cold?” he asks._

_He could never be cold with him. He tells him so._

Steve picked up one of the books that laid open on his bed. Bucky was going to get on his ass for this--he cherished books, kept them pristine, and clean on shelves if he could, and, if he couldn’t, he would wrap them in something to protect the edges.

Steve’s vision blurred. He dropped the book and stumbled to the other bed, allowing himself to fall into it.

He breathed in.

He did not cry.

 _You’re this country’s hero_.

He had to stay strong. For himself, for the Howling Commandos, for this country’s morale. He had to stay _strong_.

He sat up, took the little box out from under the bed, sifted through it. There were a couple science books on top. He pushed them aside and dug his hand into what was below.

Medals. Ribbons. They weren’t supposed to wear their ranks during fights and the bigger medals only went on their dress uniforms so he’d always shoved everything in here.

There was stuff other than his military awards, though. There was this tiny little trophy he got in second grade for best haiku. The crumpled award from fifth grade that was illegible now but once read: ‘James B Barnes, first place science project.’

He kept everything. When they were younger, Steve used to think he was a sentimental son of a bitch. After a while he realized that his best friend was self-hating and self-conscious and just wanted some reassurance that he could accomplish things.

He found the purple ribbon and pulled it out, rubbing his thumb over the metal heart. He remembered when this was given.

It was sunny and it really reflected on the troops’ face. Steve stood ramrod straight in his uniform. So did _he_.

They called him up. He did his saunter, but it was a professional saunter--just enough that everybody knew it was still there.

He stepped up to the plate. They did their speech, made their announcements. When they pinned the heart onto his chest, Steve was grinning so hard.

And _he_ \--he had that little smirk on his face and his cheeks were pink and he looked at Steve and just for a fleeting moment he forgot why they were there in the first place.

_Imagine: Panic. One hand caresses his jawline. Worry. Concern. A tired mantra. Confusion._

_“It’s me.”_

_“I thought you were dead.”_

_(I joined the army)_

_“I thought you were smaller.”_

He was in so much pain. All the time. He was good at hiding it from everybody else, but Steve knew pain on his face when he saw it.

When they were younger, he took care of Steve, and Steve was always sick, so that meant he was always around. He would feed him. Press warm washcloths to his forehead. Just _be_ there for him. Protect him.

And then Steve was injected with the serum and he was in charge of making sure the Commandos were safe and the goddamn _second_ he was in charge of protecting him, he failed.

He failed.

He _failed_.

Steve pressed his mouth against the heart, curled tighter into the blanket, and finally allowed himself to cry.

 _Dream: an arm slung around a shoulder. A shaky smile. Warm nights. Feeling wanted, feeling--feeling_ loved _. Spoon-fed soup. Hot cocoa that tastes like burnt water but loving it because of the_ novelty _of it. Laughing until the air catches in the lungs. Spinning in amusement park rides until stomachs churn and pockets are empty._

“Steve.”

He woke up, but he didn’t move--didn’t dare move.

“Steve, I’m sorry to wake you, but we need to know if you want to add anything to the condolences letter.”

“Rebecca.” His voice was hoarse.

“Yes,” Peggy said. “Does he have any other family?”

 _Me_. He didn’t say it out loud, but the word burned at the back of his throat. “No. It was just the three of us.”

“Steve, I’m really sorry. I can’t imagine--” Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat. “Is there anything you want to say?”

He shot up. The air was cold and sticky against his cheeks where his tears dried. “Don’t send it,” he said.

“What? It’s a condolences letter, Steve, she deserves--”

“ _Don’t_ send it,” he snarled. “She already got a letter. She deserves a phone call.”

She looked at him, and even though the eye movement was subtle, he could tell she was looking at him up and down, regarding him. “Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I…” He swallowed hard. “I want to be the one to do it.”

“Okay.”

 _Imagine: happiness_.

The phone was ringing. Steve pressed the speaker to his ear and, for the first time since being injected with the serum, he found it difficult to breathe.

“Hello?” Her voice was light and easy, like it always was.

“Becca.” He was supposed to ask if it was her and then state that this was the United States Army calling, but he couldn’t bring himself to sound so formal. “It’s...it’s Steve.”

Immediately her mind went to panic. “Where’s Bucky?”

“Becca, I--” He choked on his words and sent a quick glance toward Peggy, who was guarding the doorway. She hadn’t turned around to face him. “It’s my fault.”

“ _No_.” Her voice was loud in his ears, desperate. Steve couldn’t help but wonder if it’s what he sounded like when Bucky fell. “No,” she said again, softer, then: “No, no, no, no--”

“I’m--” He leaned against the wall and a silent sob wracked his body. “I’m sorry. I tried to catch him, I--”

“I already had to lose him once, Steve, I can’t--I can’t--” She choked back her cry just as it escaped. “How?”

“We were doing a mission. It was on a train. He--he fell off. It was my fault, god, I’m so sorry, I just--” He pressed a hand to his mouth. “It was my fault,” he said again. “It was my fault.”

“Did you go back? Did you look for him?”

Guilt crushed his chest. His heart spilled into his mouth and coated his tongue with bitter blood. “I _tried_ ,” he said, “But it was a warzone. They wouldn’t let me go back. They said I’m--” _too valuable_. He didn’t finish.

“You went back for him _before_ . You can do it _now_. He could be alive, Steve. He could be out there alone, and he. He needs your help.”

“I _want_ to,” said Steve, but he knew it just sounded like he was making excuses, now. “It was--but it was hundreds of feet, Becca. Even if he survived, he--”

“ _Don’t_ ,” said Rebecca. “Just-- _don’t_. Why didn’t you go back for him? After all he’s done for you--”

Steve sagged and the telephone was snatched from his hands.

“Miss Barnes,” said Peggy, “My name is Agent Margaret Carter. Captain Rogers is unavailable at the moment. If you have any questions, you can direct them to me.”

Steve didn’t hear Rebecca’s reply. He felt dizzy. He curled his arms around his legs and stared at everything and nothing at all.

_Imagine, dream, hope--God, please--: Trudging through the snow. Finding the torn fabric of a dark jacket. Cradling it between trembling hands. Two more steps, a spatter of blood. Three more, a huddled body._

_Alive. Bruised, bloodied, cold, alive. Weak smile and blue lips, alive._

_Holding him, holding him. Never letting go. Never_ once _letting go._

“You know why I took the phone from you.” It didn’t sound like a question, but Steve answered it anyway.

“I was visibly distressed.” He answered like he did in bootcamp--that emotionless drone, just slightly louder than normal speaking volume. Peggy let out a tiny little sigh.

“Speaking to Rebecca was a bad idea.”

“She deserved to have me tell her. She deserved face-to-face, but a phone call was the most I could give her.”

“You’re falling apart, Steve.”

He looked over at her, then down at himself. His uniform was dirty and nowhere near regulation. Nobody had said anything yet, but that might be because he hadn’t left his tent in days. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in days.

He huffed out a laugh.

“I know,” he said. “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“Yes, I do. You said so yourself. I’m keepin’ up the morale for America. If I fall apart, so does everybody else.”

“That’s not--”

“It’s true. Don’t try to deny it.” He brushed at the leg of his pants and then gave Peggy a bright smile. “Don’t worry. I’ve faked this kinda thing before.”

“Steve--”

“I’m gonna change, now. I gotta talk to the commandos.”

Peggy stood up. She gave him a look. “This isn’t healthy,” she said.

“Neither is dying.” He allowed his gaze to flit, just for a flash, toward the other bed. “But we all gotta move on sooner or later.”

_Sad smiles. Claps on the back. Offered beers that do nothing but leave a sour taste in his mouth and throat._

_“Wanna get drunk?” one of them asks. Steve says yes. He pretends that he does. When people think he’s drunk, they’re more relaxed. They tell him that they’re sorry. They tell him that they knew how special their relationship was._

_“He was my best friend,” says Steve._

_They look at him. They shake their heads, back and forth, back and forth. “Steve,” they say, “We know he was a lot more than that.”_

He went back to his bunk early in the morning after a long night of planning and then drinking. He was tired. Not just physically, but mentally too. Everything about him was just exhausted.

He fell into the wrong bed and buried his nose in the wrong smell. Jerked away.

 _“I’m with you ‘til the end of the line, pal_.”

“Fuck,” he whispered, jerking out from under the covers. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck--”

“Steve?” Right outside the tent. She was always there, always wanting to help. But she never could. “Are you okay?”

“Just trying to sleep,” he called back. He kept his voice light. Cheery. Nothing wrong here, Peggy. Nothing at all.

“Can I come in?”

He hesitated. He didn’t want to refuse her. But he was so, so tired. Finally he said: “Don’t stay for long.”

The flap lifted and she ducked in. There were bags under her eyes. “I heard what the commandos were saying,” she said.

“Yeah?” He didn’t really know what she was talking about.

“You and Barnes. Were you--”

He waited. Peggy was stumbling over her words for the first time since he’d met her.

“Were you two…”

“He was my best friend,” said Steve, filling in the blanks.

“They said he was more.”

“He was family.”

“You loved him,” she tried.

“Of course I did. He was everything to me.”

“Everything,” she repeated.

“What are you getting at, Peggy? I’m about to--”

“Were you two involved?”

He recoiled. For a moment--

 _Laughter against his skin. Lips brushing against his neck. Curled together like their two spoons nestled against one another in the kitchen drawer. Warmth_.

“Involved?”

“Romantically,” she said.

“No.” The answer didn’t come out adamant, and he didn’t know why.

“Because it’s okay if you were.”

“To whom?” He didn’t know why he asked this question, either.

“To everybody. To the commandos, to this unit, to...to me.”

“Not America,” he said.

“No. Not yet. Maybe someday.”

“Not gonna be alive for when that happens.”

She came a little closer. Her heels dragged against the ground. “So you were involved, then?”

“I said no.”

“Did you want to be?”

“Peggy.” He put a hand on his forehead. “Barnes and me, we were always close. We were closer than brothers. He was always there for me. That’s all I know.”

“He loved you.”

“I know.”

“That’s why they all--that’s why the commandos thought you were together, you know. Because of how much he loved you. He’d watch you. All the time. When you weren’t looking, he’d just look at you, and there was so much adoration in his eyes. He’d do anything for you.”

“Yeah,” said Steve. “He died for me.”

“Steve.”

“Look, Peggy. I don’t know what you’re trying to get out of this. We were close. We loved each other. As far as I know--”

_“You’re my number one, Stevie. You’re my number one,” Bucky says into Steve’s hair._

_“Yeah? Your number one?”_

_“I’d choose you over anybody else in the world.”_

_“What about Rebecca? Or your mom? Or--”_

_“Stevie, pal, I meant what I said. Number one.”_

_Steve shivers. Even with Bucky holding him and the three comforters on top, he can’t get warm enough. “Number one,” he whispers._

_“Imma prove it to you, someday. You’ll see.”_

_“Okay.” He’s still shivering._

_“Do you need another blanket?”_

_“No,” Steve lies. “I’m just tremblin’ at the prospect of you provin’ yourself to me.”_

“As far as I know,” Steve said, “No romantic feelings whatsoever.”

“Would you be okay if there were?”

“He’s dead!” he snapped. “He’s dead, okay? And nothin’s gonna bring him back, especially not _this_.”

“Okay,” she said. She lifted her hands, surrendering. And she backed toward the door. “Let me know if I can do anything for you, Steve, seriously.”

“Gimme some alone time.” He stalked to his bed. “I need to _sleep_.”

She paused in the doorway. Her gaze connected with the ground, steady and a little sad. “If you can’t admit it to me, that’s fine,” she said, “But at least admit it to yourself. You owe Barnes that much.”  

_Dream: he lies in bed, delirious with a high fever. He can’t stop shivering, but he sweats through his clothes. He’s instructed to take the clothes off and lie underneath a pile of blankets. He’s fed soup. He can’t tell what’s going on, but he knows that he’s held after his nightmares._

_It’s in the middle of the night. He wakes up screaming, sweating, crying. He rushes in. He takes him into his arms and he rocks him, back and forth. He only recognizes the motion. He finds comfort in it. Just as he’s about to fall asleep, he thinks he feels the brush of lips against the skin right on the corner of his mouth, ever so soft, ever so subtle._

_And then it’s gone._

“He’s more reckless.”

“Then get his head back in the game! This is the final run, Carter, he--”

Steve stepped into the room and everybody fell silent, looking everywhere else but him. He straightened his jacket. “I can do it,” he said.

“Can you?” Colonel Phillips frowned at him. “You’ve been a mess, Rogers.”

“I get the job done.”

“You’re reckless,” he said.

“I get the job done.” He folded his hands behind his back. “Besides. I’m the best you’ve got. You don’t have a chance with anybody else.”

“He’s right,” Howard said. He was leaning against the far wall, arms crossed. “Nobody else can do it.”

“What’s the plan?”

“It’s a bad one,” said Peggy. “It’s rough.”

“Can’t get any worse,” said Steve.

_Running. Fighting. Fists ache. Heat against his arm. Laughter. A hurried kiss that leaves his mouth tasting bitter._

_The cold._

_“At least,” Steve whispers, “It’s fitting.”_

_The plane collides with the ice. He thought for one beautiful moment that he was going to die on impact, but he doesn’t._

_He gets a dark bruise on his hip, but he doesn’t die._

_It’s cold. He wonders if this is how Bucky felt, alone in the ice._

_He unbuckles from his seat and walks farther into the plane. His shield is in the corner, but he ignores it._

_He stretches out across the table. The cold seeps from the metal and infects his skin._

_He wonders if maybe somebody will come looking for him, if Stark or Peggy or Phillips or somebody else will come looking for him, if they’ll scour the ocean. If they looked hard, they could find the tesseract. If they looked harder, they might find him._

_He hopes they don’t find either. He hopes he’ll die here--alone in the ice, like Bucky._

_He closes his eyes._

“You okay?”

Steve’s lips cracked when he opened them. “I’m fine.”

Natasha’s eyebrows drew together. “Bullshit. You just woke up seventy years into the future and were immediately demanded to fight another war. There’s no way you’re okay.”

 _Tired eyes_.

“I’m fine, Romanoff.”

Her eyes searched his. “I read the reports.”

“What reports?”

“All of them. Everything they have on you.”

Steve’s stomach curled. “Find out anything interesting?”

“You were a hero. You don’t belong with the rest of us.”

He looked up at this. “What does that mean?”

“I’m not saying that you aren’t good enough for us. I’m saying that you’re _too_ good for us. I mean, look at this.” She lifted a hand, gesturing to the building around them. It was in ruins, but they could hear, distantly, Tony Stark welding something with his suit. The rest of the team was probably somewhere below them, sleeping. “Look at _us_ ,” she said.

“What about you?”

“Barton and I are assassins. We’ll never get out of that. Banner--he’s destroyed at least three cities by now. Thor is an arrogant bastard who’s only concerned about the wellbeing of Asgard, his family, and his girlfriend. And Stark is...well, he’s Stark.” She shook her head, and her hair fell into her face. “We aren’t heroes. This was the first time we’ve really saved people on a big scale. You’ve been doing it since the beginning.”

“That doesn’t make me any better than you.”

“It makes you deserve more than us,” she said. “Come on, Steve. You know it, I know it. You need a break.”

“I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. You’re exhausted. You need a break.”

“I don’t need a break. I slept for seventy years.”

“You keep saying that. I’m not saying that you should sleep. I’m saying that you should take a break. I’m saying that you need...I don’t know, a vacation or something.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I need to be busy doing something, I don’t know. I need to keep my mind busy.”

“Is this about Barnes?”

He sucked in his breath. Natasha offered no apology.

“It said in your file that you were affected by his death.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

She tilted her head. “No shit,” she repeated.

“We were close.”

“I went to the Smithsonian. You have an exhibit, you know. There’s an entire section dedicated to James B. Barnes. Best friend on both playground and battlefield, right?”

_We knew he was a lot more than that._

Steve closed his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, “Right.”

“You miss him?”

“More than anything.” He looked sideways at her. “What about you? Miss anyone from back in the old days?”

Natasha’s expression turned sour. “No one to miss,” she said.

 _He works with Natasha because she’s_ there _, and he knows that if he tried to explain it to anyone, it wouldn’t make sense, but it does to him. She’s there. She’s real. She doesn’t tell him things he should be aware of and he doesn’t know the first thing about her, but she’s there, and he’s grateful for it. The other Avengers--he doesn’t really stay in contact with them. Occasionally he’ll get an invitation to one of Stark’s parties, but he ignores them and elects to stay in DC, which is familiar enough for him to navigate properly but not so familiar that it overwhelms him with memories._

_He meets Sam._

“On your left.”

_He’s got an easy aura to him and he’s funny and he seems, for some reason, very open to being friends with Steve._

_He doesn’t ask about the war Steve was in, and Steve doesn’t ask about the war that he was in. They meet once a week and they talk about movies. Sam, once, says something about losing Riley. He doesn’t say what it felt like--only that it was like he was just there to watch. Steve doesn’t tell him that he lost Bucky. He doesn’t tell him that it felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest and he isn’t sure if he’s ever going to get it back._

“We aren’t in a war anymore,” Steve whispered to his reflection as he wipes his mirror clean of condensation. “The war’s over.”

_But it isn’t. Fury’s suddenly dead and all of SHIELD is after him. And then, fighting the Winter Soldier so desperately--_

He grabbed hold of the mask and ripped it off. The Winter Soldier turned around.

_Imagine: Hair wound around his hand, tangled between his fingers. He tries to pull away._

_“Steve, come on--”_

_“I kinda like it long,” he says teasingly, tugging on it._

_“I don’t! It’s so messy and it gets in my mouth all the time--Stevie, you have no idea. You should hear the people at school.”_

_“Don’t listen to them. It’ll keep your ears warm.”_

_He smiles at him. His face is very close._

“Bucky?”

The man with Bucky’s face barely reacted. “Who the hell is Bucky?” And it was his _voice_ , too, but he lifted the gun anyway and pointed it right at Steve and his instincts screamed but he didn’t move because that was _Bucky_ standing in front of him and--

_Screaming. Falling._

_(Don’t do anything stupid until I get back)_

_(How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you)_

“It was him,” Steve said. “He looked right at me and he didn’t even know me.” The van went over a bump and Natasha winced.

“How is that even possible? It was, like, seventy years ago.”

“Zola.” Steve stared at the floor of the van. “Bucky’s whole unit was captured in ‘43. Zola experimented on ‘em. Whatever he did, it helped Bucky survive the fall. They must have found him.”

_Why didn’t you go back for him? After all he’s done for you--_

“None of that’s your fault, Steve.” Natasha’s voice sounded strange.

“Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky.”

_After the funeral, they’re walking side by side. Bucky tries to convince Steve to come over, to make a fort or something. Steve refuses._

_“I can get by on my own.”_

_Bucky’s eyes get sad. “The thing is,” he says, “You don’t have to.”_

_It’s the first time Steve has ever pushed Bucky away._

_He opens the door and pretends he doesn’t see the pain on Bucky’s face._

“He might not give you a choice. He doesn’t know you.”

“He will.”

_Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You know me._

Afterward, Steve ached in his bed. The shield is at the end of his bed, but he tried not to look at it too much. He didn’t want to think about who combed the river looking for it. He hoped it wasn’t Sam or Natasha, but he also hoped it wasn’t any SHIELD agents.

“How you doin’?”

Steve cracked open one eye.

“He remember you?”

“He pulled me out,” Steve said, and it felt like he was forcing the air from his lungs. “I saw him. His arm.”

“That’s how you ended up on the river?”

“He saved my life.” He closed his eyes again. “He said he didn’t remember me, but I think...at least a little…” He groaned.

“You okay?”

“Fine, just.” Steve pressed a hand to the wound on his side. “Fuckin’ hurts.”

“I can imagine. The doctor said you were lucky to be alive. You know how many bullet holes you got in you?”

“Oh, I know.”

Sam laughed for a second. “Hey, uh. I talked to Peggy. She saw something about you on the news and got a little upset.”

“Peggy?” Steve sat upward. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she’s okay.” Sam tugged on Steve’s blanket. “Sit down,” he said. “You’re gonna pull your stitches.”

Steve, reluctantly, sank back into his bed. “What happened? What did you say to her?”

“I told her that you’re alive and okay and that this is nothing in the grand scheme. But she knew you were okay. Somehow.”

“So what was she upset about?”

“She’d forgotten to tell you something the last time you went and saw her. Apparently the Smithsonian has a box of Barnes’ stuff.”

“What? What stuff?”

“After you crashed, they went and collected everything in your tent and put it into storage. They didn’t have your outfit, obviously, since it was buried in the ice with you, but everything else. You can imagine they were pumped to put your outfit in there, too.”

“What’s in there?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t looked. I wanted to check with you to see if you wanted it in the first place.”

“It’s Bucky’s stuff?”

“And yours. Everything that was in your tent or whatever ended up in storage.”

“Did you get it?”

“It’s in my car. I wasn’t sure if you would want it or not.”

“I do. Please.” Steve knew he sounded pathetic, but he couldn’t help it. “Please. It might help.”

“Sure, Steve. I’ll go grab it.” Sam reached out and touched his arm. “Get some rest while I’m gone. You’re in bad shape.”

_Dream: Pained eyes. Bloody fists._

_“You know me.”_

_“No I don’t!”_

_But there’s so much doubt in his face that Steve can’t help but hope, can’t help but pray--_

“I’m not sure what’s yours and what isn’t.” Sam put down a stack of boxes on the chair next to Steve’s bed. “Nothing’s labeled. I think they just shoved everything in a box and sent it right to the museum.”

Steve moved to take one of the boxes but Sam gave him a look. “What?”

“Don’t move. You’re going to tear your stitches.”

“I’m not that fragile,” Steve growled, but he flounced back in the bed anyway. “Okay, first box.”

Sam put it, gently, onto his lap. Steve unfolded it. “What is it?” Sam asked.

“Looks like my dress uniform.” He dug deeper. “Just clothes.”

“Okay.” Sam took the box, replaced it with another one. “What about this one?”

Steve pulled it open and, very carefully, lifted out the smaller box inside that held all of Bucky’s metals. It was in sorry shape, now, which was strange because Steve remembered holding it like it was yesterday. He took the purple heart--faded now--and rubbed it between his fingers. “Bucky’s awards,” he said softly. He put down the heart, pulled out the paper award. It was crinkled and moth-eaten and completely illegible. “This was...first place science project.”

“He kept that? Even through the army?”

“Yeah, he...he usually needed assurance that he wasn’t a failure.” Steve felt almost like he was betraying Bucky by saying this out loud. “He needed reminders that he was capable of accomplishing things. I tried to tell him that he didn’t have anything to worry about, but he was a self-conscious son of a bitch.” Steve dug through the rest of the box. “I think this is all Bucky’s stuff,” he said. “His awards, his journal. This is his shirt.”

“His journal?” Sam said. “That might be helpful.”

Steve looked over at him. “I’m not going to read his journal.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s his _journal_. It’s private.”

“It might help you find him.”

“It’s private,” said Steve again.

“Fine. I’ll read it.” Sam snatched it from the box, out of Steve’s reach before he could catch it.

“Sam--”

“Shut up, Steve. You have a strict moral code that you don’t dare step away from so I’m just helping you out.”

Steve glared at him.

“Don’t give me that look. I feel like I’ve let down my country or something.”

“You _have_ ,” Steve grumbled. He moved to take the journal back, but Sam danced out of his reach, wagging a finger.

“Don’t you dare move, Captain Rogers. Don’t you listen to your doctor?” He pulled open the journal and started leafing through it.

“ _Sam_.”

“Come on, Steve, it’s probably just--” Sam stopped riffling through the pages and his eyes widened.

“What?”

“Well, I mean. It’s not super helpful, so you might not want to know?” Sam eyes widened even farther. “Damn.”

“Sam, come on. Should I be worried?”

Sam looked at him over the book. “You and Barnes.”

“What about us?”

“Were you two gettin’ it on or somethin’?”

“What? What does that even mean?”

The corners of Sam’s lips twitched. “Did you, uh. Were you two involved?”

 _He loved you_.

“No,” Steve said. “Why?”

Sam turned the book around. Steve couldn’t quite read the dark scribbles covering the page, but he could tell that it was the same words repeated over and over. “Because of this.”

“What does that say?”

“It just says ‘I love him’. Over and over. For like four pages.”

Steve swallowed. “It might have been--”

“Do _not_ say it might have been about somebody else. That’s bullshit.”

“Sam--”

“Do you want me to call Natasha over here? Because she’ll tell you the exact same thing--that it’s bullshit.”

“Do _not_ call Natasha.”

“This was about you, Steve.” Sam flipped to another page and shoved the book into Steve’s face. “Look at this.”

In Bucky’s handwriting, scrawled and spattered with rain: _Why didn’t I kiss him before I left? He was right there._

“I’m not up for playing matchmaker,” said Sam, “But this shit is hard to ignore.”

Steve was finding it difficult to breathe. “He--he--”

_He loved you._

“So you understand why I’m curious,” said Sam. “I know that kind of thing wasn’t something you advertised in the forties, but it’s okay now.”

Steve stared at him.

“Oh, fuck,” said Sam. He knelt by Steve’s bed, looked him right in the eye. “Steve. Did you or did you not like Barnes in a gay way?”

Steve didn’t answer-- _couldn’t_ answer. Sam pressed his lips together.

“How did you two meet?”

“I got in a fight. He patched me up.”

“How old were you?”

Steve shook his head. “I don’t know. Nine? Ten?”

“So you’ve known each other for a long time.”

“Yeah.” _But not anymore_.

“I’mma tell you somethin’, Steve. Me n’ Riley, we were close. We were closer than brothers. Nothin’ gay or anythin’, but we were damn close. But if we got separated for seventy years? No way in hell he’d know who I was. No way in hell. And he definitely wouldn’t risk his own life to drag me out of a river.”

“What are you tryin’ to say?”

“I’m sayin’ that you usin’ the whole ‘closer than brothers’ is bullshit, Steve. You weren’t brothers. You weren’t just ‘closer than brothers’. You two were...fuck, I don’t know. You were soulmates.”

“The concept of soulmates is childish,” said Steve.

“Fuck that. You sound like Romanoff with that shit--you two _belonged_ together. I don’t give a shit if it was romantic or not. You belonged together and that’s why he remembers you.”

“Sam--”

“You should get some rest. We can go through the rest of the boxes tomorrow.”

“Sam,” Steve said, weakly.

“Get some rest and we’ll talk tomorrow.” Sam tucked Bucky’s little journal into his back pocket and moved toward the door. “We’ll find him, Steve.”

_Remember: dim lighting, cold breeze. He sits across him and they share a small can of soup._

_“You still hungry?”_

_“No, I’m okay.”_

_He grins. “You’re a terrible liar, Stevie.”_

_“I am not.”_

_“How about we warm up?” He jumps to his feet and waltzes to the radio, then turns it on. The lyrics curl through the air. “Come on, Stevie. Let’s dance.”_

_“I’m terrible at dancing.”_

_“Come on, Stevie! You and your lying.” He pulls him to his feet, into his arms. They fall against each other, laughing. “Sing along, Stevie!”_

_“I’m terrible at--”_

_“He connects me with ma honey, then I rings the bell, and this is what I say to baby mine…”_

_“Buck--”_

_“Hello, ma baby, hello, ma darlin’, hello my ragtime gaalll.” He drags out the last word and spins him around, bringing him close to his chest afterward. “Send me a kiss by wire--baby, my heart’s on fire!”_

_He can’t breathe because he’s laughing too much._

_“If you refuse me, honey, you’ll lose me, then you’ll be left aloonne--oh baby, telephone and tell me I’m your oown--Hello! Hello! Hello! Hello there!”_

“I brought you some snacks.” Natasha dropped into the chair next to Steve and offered him a bag of chips. “They’re Nacho Cheese flavored.”

Steve took one.

“Where Sam?”

“He just left.”

She played with the opening of the bag. “He said you two found Barnes’ notebook.”

“Yeah.”

“Find anything interesting?”

“I didn’t read it.”

“Sam did.”

“Yeah, he did.”

“Did he find anything interesting?”

“Not really. It was mostly just personal thoughts. If I find him again, I can--” He stopped. Swallowed. The chip sat crushed in his hand.

“You’ll find him again,” Natasha said gently.

“I don’t know, Nat. I don’t even know where to start.”

“I just released all of SHIELD’s files to the public, blew all of my covers. It should be easy to get Barnes’ file. Which might be able to help.” She offered another chip, but his hand was still coated in crumbs. “They’re good,” she said.

“Too salty,” said Steve. He brushed the crumbs off into the wastebasket right by his bed.

“You didn’t even try it.”

Steve didn’t answer, and Natasha sighed.

“Okay, what do you want? Gummy bears? Sour worms? Chocolate? I think I also brought some Cool Ranch Doritos, which you might prefer.”

Steve shook his head.

“You have to eat _something_ , Steve.”

“I did. The hospital gave me a meal and some jello.”

“Not enough. You know how fast your metabolism is.”

“Fine. Chocolate, then.”

Natasha handed him a bar and tossed another chip into her mouth. “It’s kind of liberating, you know.”

Steve was carefully unwrapping the chocolate bar. “What’s that?”

“Being known by the world. Not having to hide anymore. It’s liberating.”

“I’m glad.”

“You're a good kisser, you know.”

Steve stared at her. “Excuse me?”

“I said, you’re a good kisser.”

Steve was finding this simultaneously hilarious and mortifying. “Why?” he said at last.

“Why did I tell you?” Natasha shrugged. Her indifference was unnerving. “Just thought you should know. You said that you’ve kissed people since the forties,” she added, “But I’m pretty sure you lied.”

“I don’t lie,” said Steve.

“Well, I’m pretty sure you did then.” She kicked back, balancing her chair on its back two legs. “I just thought you should know you’re a good kisser, just in case you were planning on kissing anybody.”

“Who could I possibly be planning to kiss, Natasha?”

Her eyes were all too knowing. “You might have somebody.”

“I don’t.”

_Remember: mouth hot against his, fingernails digging patterns into skin, gasping. Hurried, desperate whispers. Feeling loved, feeling wanted._

_Waking up coated in a fine sheen of sweat--across him, concern._

_“You okay, Stevie?”_

_He collapses, weak, against the covers. “A dream,” he whispers; “It was just a dream.”_

_An arm wraps around his waist. “I’m sorry, Stevie. I’m here if you wanna talk.”_

_He is afraid to move._

“Sam,” said Steve. The other man didn’t turn to talk to him, but he grunted in reply. “Sorry, are you busy?”

“I’m just working on this thing, man.”

Steve came closer and peered over Sam’s shoulder. “What is it?”

“I’m gonna call him Redwing. He’s a Drone.” He lifted his arm, displaying a screen. “His controls are right here.”

“What does he do?” Steve wasn’t very familiar with drones. “Can he fly?”

Sam twisted around. He had a screwdriver in one hand. “You didn’t come here to talk about my son,” he said.

“Your _son_?”

“What do you need?”

“Uh.”

Sam hooked his foot around the log of the chair next to him and dragged it out from underneath the table. “Sit.”

Steve sat.

“You’re Mr. Perfect on the battlefield,” Sam grumbled, “But as soon as you have to talk about your feelings, you…” He waved the screwdriver around. “I don’t have a good analogy. You’re the writers of Star Trek portraying Kirk and Spock as straight, you know? You seen Star Trek?”

“Uh...no.”

“It was on your list. I saw.”

“I’ve been a little busy. I don’t know if you noticed, but apparently the government system I’ve been working for was infiltrated by Nazis.”

Sam gave an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, well. The point is, you’re fuckin’ bad at it.”

“I’ve been told.”

“What did you want to talk about?”

“Bucky.”

“Barnes? What about him?”

“I was, uh. I was thinking about what you showed me.”

Sam, carefully, put his screwdriver down, then slipped off the arm piece. “The journal,” he said.

“Yeah. I’ve been reflecting on...what Barnes and I used to be like. I’m beginning to think a lot of his jokes were actually, uh. Flirtations.”

Sam raised one eyebrow. “You think? How did you you reach that conclusion? It isn’t like he wrote ‘I love him’ twelve-hundred times in his little notebook thing.” He waited a beat while Steve processed this. “I counted them. Twelve-hundred times.”

Steve leaned against the table. “I was healing.”

“Bullshit.”

He looked over his shoulder. “You and Natasha are fond of saying that to me.”

“It’s because you’re full of shit.” Sam’s voice wasn’t harsh, but his face was hard. “Steve, in your eyes, Barnes just died.”

“He died over seventy years ago. That’s more than--”

“No, Steve. It isn’t. In your eyes, Barnes has died more recently than Riley. And I’m not even over Riley yet.”

“Riley didn’t come back from the dead.”

Sam looked pained.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“At least you’re honest,” he said.”And you’re right. But that doesn’t change my point at all.”

“Which is?”

“You didn’t have enough time to get over it. He died, you were still in the war, you went to sleep. And then as soon as you woke up, you were fighting again. You haven’t had time to--”

“I’m not always fighting, you know.”

“Yeah, Steve, but you’re always prepared to. When was the last time you were relaxed?”

“I’m pretty relaxed right now.”

Steve tapped on the arm piece and something red shot upward. Steve immediately smacked it against the wall.

“Steve,” said Sam.

“Sorry.” Steve peered down at the little robot, concerned. “Did I hurt it?”

“ _Him_. And, no, you didn’t. Redwing isn’t so weak that he’ll crumple after one little…” Sam took the robot and examined it, frowning. “Wow, you dented him. Rude.”

“Sorry.”

“But do you see my point? He just twitched and you immediately attacked. No way are you relaxed right now.” He gently probed Redwing. “Bullshit,” he muttered under his breath.

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah, he’s fine. Just a little dent. Didn’t have to hit him so hard.”

“I know. I just. I’m jumpy.”

“Which means you aren’t relaxed. Which brings me back to my question--when was the last time you were relaxed?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

Steve’s chin dropped to his chest. “Fine.”

“Say it.”

“Didn’t know you were a therapist,” Steve mumbled.

“Don’t give me that shit. Just be honest with me. Be honest with yourself, Steve.”

“Fine. The last time I was relaxed was when I was with Bucky. But that’s not gonna happen again, Sam.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s a trained killer. They brainwashed him for seventy years straight.”

“But he still remembered you.”

A knock at the door. Steve and Sam turned around.

“We have a mission,” said Tony. His eyes seemed so tired now, Steve noticed. Before, it looked like he wasn’t getting much sleep, but now it just seemed like he was tired of everything at once.

“You okay?”

“Rumlow,” said Tony. He lifted one shoulder, displaying the carelessness he was so fond of projecting. “Fucking up some civilians. We’re supposed to stop them. Round up the team?”

“Sure. Tony--”

Tony was turning around but stopped for a moment, not quite looking Steve in the eye.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Let’s just bring this fucker down, yeah?”

_Remember: water, not cold but not warm, either. Darkness closing in on the edge of his vision. He thinks he sees, for just one moment, an arm, reaching toward him._

_(Don’t do anything stupid until I get back)_

_(You’re my number one, Stevie. My number one.)_

Steve watched him sleep.

He was so restless. He tossed and turned, his face contorted in pain. He ached to reach out and...well, he didn’t know what exactly he’d do.

Bucky’s eyes darted around under the lids. He let out a soft cry--whining, almost--and pressed his face into the pillow.

“Is he okay?” Sam stepped up next to Steve and crossed his arms.

“No. He won’t be for a while.”

“Is he okay with you watching him like this?”

Every part of Steve’s body hurt. “He asked me to.”

“Should we wake him up?”

“I want to, but I don’t know if…” Steve shook his head. “I don’t know. What would you do?”

“Me? Well, I think he’s an asshole.”

Steve let out a huff. “You do not.”

“Yes, I do.”

Steve just looked at him.

“Okay, fine. He’s alright, as far as dudes go. And I know you’re totally in love with each other so I’m going to get used to having him around.”

“We aren’t--”

“Steve, it’s okay. You don’t have to admit it. I know.”

They both watched Bucky for a few more minutes. Then Steve said: “Have you talked to Scott?”

“He’s still got, like, ten times the energy we all have put together.”

“But he’s okay?”

Sam nodded. “He’s okay. He’s gettin’ his rest.”

“You explained everything to him?”

“Yeah.”

“You gave him choices?”

“Yeah. I gave him the keys to the van, too, in case he wanted to pack it up and go sign the accords.”

“And he refused.”

“Vehemently.”

“Okay. And Clint--”

“He’s talking to Wanda.”

“I should talk to her, too.”

“Come on, Steve. You don’t need to. Clint’s basically her dad and you’ve got your hands full with Bucky.”

“I do tend to fill one’s hands.”

Steve and Sam both jumped, Sam making a slight shrieking noise. Bucky glanced at him.

“How the _fuck_ \--” Sam gasped.

“I’m a trained assassin.” Bucky nodded at the room with the little window opening to which Steve thought he and Sam were paying close attention. “I can escape almost any enclosed space.”

“Oh, we know,” Sam grumbled.

“Sam.”

“It’s fine, Rogers. I’m not that fragile.”

Steve swallowed.

“Sorry, did I not call you Rogers?”

“Uh. No.”

“Yeah, didn’t think so.” Bucky let out his breath and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to remember what I was like...before, you know? But sometimes things slip out. Just correct me if I mess up.”

Steve didn’t want to correct him. Steve just wanted Bucky back-- _his_ Bucky. “Okay,” he said.

“All of this...you don’t have to do it, you know.”

“You’re my best friend, Buck.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said quietly. The corners of his mouth turn down.

“Listen,” said Sam, “Not that I care or anything, but we found a box of your shit in the Smithsonian, if you want to look through it.”

Bucky visibly lit up. “Really? Not just the shit they have displayed in the museum?”

“Yeah. They found it in the tent after you and Steve kicked the bucket.”

“Neither of us kicked the bucket,” said Steve.

“Yeah, whatever. But, Barnes, I’ve got, like. An entire box for you to look through.”

Bucky was tentative as he looked between them. “Would it be okay if I...looked at it now?”

“Of course,” Steve said quickly, before Sam could get out a snarky reply. “I can go get it. If you two could...not kill each other? That would be great.”

“Hey,” said Sam. “You left us in that car alone and we were fine.”

“That was for four minutes. And when we got back, you immediately got into an argument.”

“It wasn’t an argument,” Bucky interjected. “It was just a disagreement.”

“You were throwing pots at each other.”

“In my defense, he was implying that you’d done some _pretty_ stupid shit--”

“He’d done it! That’s all true! Do you want the reports or something?”

“Sam, what’d you tell him?”

“That you regularly jump out of planes without parachutes and keep infiltrating bases alone and your big dramatic death was because you were a fuckin’ drama queen.”

“That last one isn’t true,” said Steve.

Bucky’s eyes bulged. “You mean the _rest_ of them are true? What the fuck, Steve?”

Steve’s vision was starting to go a little misty. He clapped Bucky on the back. “Glad to have you back, pal.”

_They fight with fluidity--they had had something like this in the war, but this is different. They’re both stronger, now. They’ve learned more. The shield bounces between them, an effective weapon. Tony lies, defeated, on the ground._

“That shield doesn’t belong to you!”

_He drops the shield._

_They walk away together._

“You’re sure about this?”

Bucky gave him a weak, weak smile. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, pal.”

Steve pretended like he didn’t feel the urge to jump off a bridge. “If you’re sure,” he said.

“Will you tell everybody else that I’m sorry? They gave up everything for me and--”

Steve caught him in a hug. “I’ll tell them, Buck.”

“Steve--”

He pulled away for a moment. They were so, so close.

“I read my journal,” said Bucky. “My old one, I mean. From the war.”

“Yeah?” His heart raced inside his chest.

“And I just--” Bucky’s eyes filled with tears and he took Steve into his arms again, hugging tighter than he had before. “I don’t have the words to express what I feel for you. I’m so grateful. I should have said something before but I--”

“I know, Buck. I know.”

“Captain.” The doctor behind them speaks up tentatively. “Sergeant Barnes.”

“Yes, Doctor?” Bucky looks toward her first, wiping at his eyes.

“We’ve already injected the serum into your blood. We need to get you into cyro, now.”

“Yes, of course.” Bucky stepped away and Steve followed him to the cylinder. “Kind of reminds me of old times,” he said, smiling shakily. “Except, you know. I’m missing arm this time and there isn’t any torture. Make sure that doesn’t change, yeah?”

“I will personally burn this place to the ground before I let anything happen to you,” said Steve. The doctor laughed quietly.

“And I’m sure King T’Challa will help you, Captain.” She fastened the straps onto Barnes’ arm. “These are easily removable, Sergeant. If you wake up, you can remove them without any difficulty. Would you like to try?”

He pulled. The strap easily came undone, and she redid it.

“This is just so it keeps you in the most safe and comfortable position while you sleep.”

“Thank you.”

“It is an honor and a privilege to have you in Wakanda, Mr. Barnes.”

He gave her a tiny smile, then: “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll, uh. I’ll see you when I wake up, yeah? You’ll be here?”

“Of course.”

“Steve, I…” Bucky shook his head.

“I know,” said Steve again. “Me, too.”

The chamber fills with gas. Steve thought, for a moment, that he heard quiet singing, but it stopped when the machine quieted.

He looked at Bucky’s frozen form for a long time. The song tickled the back of his mind.

_Hello, ma baby. Hello, ma darlin’. Hello, my ragtime gal._

_Send me a kiss by wire--baby my heart’s on fire._

Bucky’s face, for the first time in a long time, was relaxed.

_I love him, I love him, I love him._

Steve wiped at his eyes walked away.


End file.
